And it's o'er the hills I will roll in splendour

It's the Triumph of the fucking Will

She crooned seductively in my ear with a voice like honey

In the bullet

He sneezed beside a dead woman
Who was sat upright in her clothes of bunting.
Moths flew in cascades before the tomb was closed.
A man cried a tear of gunmetal slag that stuck to his cheek,
While around him faces fractured like the sea
And a woman with the face of a sleeper crusted with ice.
The sun turned to pearls at my shoulder
And she curled her lip like a fish.
The woman who was a cat blinked at me more than once.

In the richness of your secret folds

It was a red herring

for Simon Furey

The Samoan

Two old scholars
Argue about the casual sex
They may or may not have shared
As adolescents.
Their frenzied disputes
Are hopeful fantasies
Of memory.
They apply, fail to apply, apply, fail to apply
The scientific method,
While their public defloration
Is stripped from the calendar.
In this land of no today
The Polynesian gifts exchanged
Are a wave of particles on the sand.
Flightless birds run into a yesterday that did not happen
And the bones of the elders
Will burn down a tomorrow
That will never come.